


Lucky Charms

by L3ftOfCent3r



Category: American Gods (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, I don't understand ratings, I probably don't understand tags, fluffy angst?, langauge..., spoilers?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-11-15 21:28:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11239611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/L3ftOfCent3r/pseuds/L3ftOfCent3r
Summary: A slight re-telling and over-telling of the conversation between Laura Moon and Mad Sweeney about gods and how they like to *eff* with us.





	Lucky Charms

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing, but if I owned that golden sun coin...I probably wouldn't give it back either.

“ _He needed your man.”_ Sweeney said with a far-off look in his eyes that Laura tried to ignore. _“Needed him to be in a place where he had nothing left in the world. Nothing to lose, 'cause he already lost everything.”_

The wheels were spinning in Laura's head and if she had any blood left in her veins—it would've been boiling.

“That's the place where you're most desperate.” Sweeney added, “Wednesday found me there, once.”

Laura Moon rolled her eyes.

“Only once?” she taunted him before rising to her feet and pacing. ' _Wednesday's gonna pay.'_ she thought. _'I'm gonna make him pay.'_

“It was back in 1964—”

“Really.” she interrupted as she leveled Sweeney with a death glare, “You're really trying to reminisce, right now?”

Sweeney made a gesture of slowly raising his hands as if he was being held at gunpoint. _'I wish I had a gun.'_ Laura thought to herself.

“You need to hear it,” Sweeney told her as he caught her gaze and held it, “'Cause I know what your thinkin' in that maggot-ridden head of yours. And ya can't kill him.”

Laura heaved a sigh and then plopped herself down on the floor beside him. Her jaw clenched and un-clenched as if she was chewing on a particularly tough piece of meat.

“Fine.” she spat, “Tell me.”

Laura watched as the corner of his mouth curved-up ever-so-slighty and her fist reflexively tightened with ball-busting force. Sweeney's smirk faded as he noticed her hand.

“As I was sayin',” he cleared his throat, “It was in 1964. That was the year General fucken Mills introduced that sugar-whoring leprechaun to the kiddies of America. There was war and Beatlemania and—FUCK!”

Laura kicked him. Hard. And Sweeney cursed as he favored his leg, pulling it up and away from her.

“Is there a point to this?” she hissed, “Or should I continue testing my nut-cracking skills?”

“Fu—sorry.” he sputtered, “The point is that it was an unholy fucken year!” He paused as a far-off look took hold of him once more, “And then, Wednesday came. He came with his birds...”

 

**Somewhere in America. 1964.**

 

Behind a rundown bar that looked more like a haven for vagrants than a place of business, Mad Sweeney sat with a half-empty bottle of whiskey in his hand. The brick-wall at his back was all that kept him upright and the old wooden post that stood over him illuminated his dark little corner of the world. He had nothing and he had become nothing himself—a forgotten immortal in a land that spun Irish legends into rhymes about 'hourglasses, rainbows, and tasty red balloons'.

The light from the wooden post flickered then, and a flutter of wings broke the night's silence. Mad Sweeney craned his neck and squinted his eyes up at the lamp post. Two cawing ravens sat atop it, peering down at him with eerily glowing eyes. Mad Sweeney rubbed at his own eyes, thinking that he had finally had too much to drink and he was imagining things. The birds cawed and squawked at him in such a way that normal birds did not.

“Get up.” They seemed to say.

“He's coming.” They seemed to warn. “It would be wise to meet him on your feet.”

“It'd be wise to fuck off!” Sweeney shouted as he threw his bottle of whiskey at the birds, but he missed his mark. The bottle soared over the lamp post and shattered on to the ground.

“I don't speak fucken bird.” he lied as he crossed his arms over his chest and his head nodded off in pretense.

The ravens didn't leave. They squawked and cawed what sounded like names—an uttered string of titles used to announce royalty.

“Grimnir?” Mad Sweeney sobered and his head lifted up towards the birds who had squawked the name.

A clap of thunder shook the sky then and a bolt of lightning lit the dark alley he was seated in. The squawking and the cawing grew to an intolerable pitch and Mad Sweeney went to throw something at the ravens. Having nothing else in his possession, Mad Sweeney—out of habit—went to pull a coin from the air, but instead, a flurry of multi-colored marshmallows showered down on him. With a roar, Mad Sweeney spat-out a slur of Gaelic curses that even had the ravens blushing.

A _tsking_ sound silenced Mad Sweeney then, and he watched as an older man with an air of power about him stepped from the shadows.

“It disheartens me to see a man, such as yourself, down and out.” the man's voice was deep with the age of centuries. “A man of the mound. A guardian of a sacred rock.”

Mad Sweeney stared at the man with equal parts suspicion and fear. If this man was who he thought he was—a god of old—he was right to fear him. The older man took a step closer, and Mad Sweeney found himself pressing his back to the wall as he rose to his feet.

“It's these damn advertising companies!” his voice rumbled as his shoe swept away the multi-colored marshmallows that were in his path, “They can change people's beliefs and that can make us change too.”

“Not for long,” Mad Sweeney said with false confidence as he flicked a marshmallow from his fingers, “I've tasted the stuff. It's fucken awful.”

The old god laughed and it sounded deep and raspy like rocks rattling inside of a barrel. It did nothing to ease Mad Sweeney's suspicion, but it did make him braver.

“What do ya want of me?”

The old god smiled and wagged an appreciative finger at him.

“I like a man who wants to cut to the chase.” he said, “And it's very simple, my boy. I want you to work for me.”

Mad Sweeney sniffed and absentmindedly flicked a few more marshmallows from his fingertips. He glanced up at the ravens who had grown silent and then back at the man who waited in anticipation for his response.

“And what if I don't want to work for Grímnir the terrible one?” Mad Sweeney dared as he took his own step towards the man, “Grímnir the swift tricker. Grímnir the shifty eyed. Grímnir the blind.”

Something dangerous flickered in that one good eye then, and Mad Sweeney found himself rocking back on his heels.

“Well,” Grímnir spoke in a voice that went dark and hollow, “I'll remind you why I'm also called the god of battle and the weather-maker.”

A boom of thunder shook the earth, and before Mad Sweeney could react, a bolt of lightning struck the ground near his feet. The blast of energy sent him slamming into the wall, but the rubber soles of his shoes saved him. Mad Sweeney coughed and groaned as he pushed himself up into a sitting position.

“Now if you accept,” the old god's voice changed to a lighter tone, “There will be pay and drinking and together I can help you gain back your reputation as the guardian of a sacred treasure, the sun's treasure—not as some cereal-hoarding cartoon.” Grímnir offered Mad Sweeney his hand as he smiled and said, “Well, what do you say?”

 

**~~~~**

 

Laura Moon stared at the ginger-haired man with boredom.

“And?” she asked mockingly with a wide spread of her arms, “What am I supposed to get from that story, exactly? Don't buy Lucky Charms because it gives leprechauns coin-erectile dysfunction?”

Mad Sweeney shook his head and scowled at her.

“Don't be such a cunt. I'm tryin'a tell you that ya can't hurt him.”

Laura threw back her head and gave a laugh.

“Oh, I think I can. I hurt you, didn't I?”

Sweeney shook his head again.

“It's not the same, dead wife.” he said as he gave her an earnest look, “If you really wanna hurt him. If you wanna hurt a man—stick to what you're good at.”

Laura blinked and the look she gave him was filled with threats.

“And what's that, ginger minge?”

“Your womanly wiles.” Sweeney said without humor or deceit or anything but exhaustion, “Use your dead fucken womanly wiles and see what work you can do on that husband'a yours.”

Laura chewed on a fingernail as she considered his words. She examined the 6-foot-something man that she had sent crumpling to the floor like a small beaten puppy. He had kept things from her and he had had a hand in killing her, but she knew he was trying to right those wrongs. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth and she quickly schooled her face.

“So,” she began as she caught his gaze, “You want me to use my Lucky Charms.”

Mad Sweeney's jaw clenched and Laura mused at the anger she saw him holding back. He glared up at the ceiling—no doubt cursing her with every word he knew—but he only pointed a stern finger at her and said, “Cunt.”

 


End file.
